The Works of Ossian, the Son of Fingal,

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J.Fr. Valade., 1779

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Page 63 - Cuchullin, and lovely are the tales of other times. They are like the calm dew of the morning on the hill of roes, when the sun is faint on its side, and the lake is settled and blue in the vale.
Page 15 - Lovely daughter of Cormac, I love thee as my soul ! I have slain one stately deer for thee. High was his branchy head, and fleet his feet of wind.
Page 23 - The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hundred hammers that rise, by turns, on the red son of the furnace.
Page 58 - He saw, at length, her heaving heart, beating around the arrow he threw. " O Conloch's daughter, is it thou ? He sunk upon her breast ! The hunters found the hapless pair ; he afterwards walked . the hill. But many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean came. He fought, the strangers fled.
Page 46 - Deugala was the spouse of Cairbar, chief of the plains of Ullin. She was covered with the light of beauty, but her heart was the house of pride.
Page 21 - As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so towards each other approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plain: loud, rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inisfail. ... As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven; such is the noise of the battle.
Page 66 - She came in all her beauty ; like the moon from the cloud of the east. Loveliness was around her as light. Her steps were like the music of songs. She saw the youth and loved him. He was the stolen sigh of her soul. Her blue eyes rolled on him in secret : and she blest the chief of Morven.
Page 17 - My soul shall then be firm in danger, mine arm like the thunder of heaven. But be thou on a moonbeam, O Morna! near the window of my rest, when my thoughts are of peace, when the din of arms is past.
Page 163 - His face is without form, and dark. He sighed thrice over the hero : and thrice the winds of the night roared around. Many were his words to Oscar. He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on the sunny
Page 146 - Few be thy steps to thy grave ; and let one virgin mourn thee ! Let her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth...

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